Some Kind of Hero. Brenda Harlen
be dismissed.
She made her way through the sea of rustling silk and black ties, stopping now and again to speak with someone she hadn’t caught up with earlier. She smiled at the secretary of state and tried to ignore the fact that her toes were starting to cramp.
It had been a mistake to wear new shoes when she was going to be on her feet for the better part of the evening, but the sling-back sandals were such a perfect match for the silk crepe dress, she hadn’t been able to resist. She’d spent the better part of her twenty-four years in the public eye and knew that image was more important than comfort.
She glanced toward the back of the room again, and her eyes locked with his.
Blue, she realized. His eyes were a startling, stunning shade of blue. And just a little wary.
Her curiosity further piqued, she breached the last few feet that separated them and offered her most winning smile. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
He hesitated a beat before he shifted his untouched champagne glass and offered his hand. “Joel Logan.”
His voice was deep and incredibly sensuous, causing her blood to heat in her veins. She disregarded the sensation. She was more than likely overheated from the multitude of lights in the enormous chandeliers, not from hearing this man speak two words to her.
Reassured, she put her hand in his, felt it engulfed by his warm strength. His handshake was firm, his palm wide and slightly callused. There was nothing improper or inappropriate about the contact, and yet she felt a sudden burst of heat arrow straight to her core. She withdrew her hand quickly from his grasp.
“Riane Quinlan,” she told him.
“I know.”
He said nothing else, offered none of the usual pleasantries.
Riane was intrigued. Her family’s wealth and political connections had accustomed her to more deferential treatment. People went out of their way to impress her, never knowing when they might need a personal favor or political ally. But she’d bet every last dollar of the trust fund her grandmother had left her that Joel Logan didn’t bow and scrape for anyone, and she couldn’t help but admire him for it.
She tried another smile. “What brings you here tonight, Mr. Logan?”
“A desire to support the Quinlan Camp for Underprivileged Children?”
It was more of a question than an answer, and she couldn’t decide if he was just unsociable or deliberately trying to annoy her. She should thank him for his support and leave it at that, but there was something about him that made it impossible for her to walk away.
“It must help that your shoulders are so broad,” she commented.
He frowned at her. “Excuse me?”
“Your shoulders,” she said again. “They must be the reason you can walk upright with the size of that chip you’re carrying.”
He shifted his champagne glass into his other hand again, his scowl deepening.
Dark, moody, and no sense of humor, Riane decided. She signaled to a nearby waiter, turned to speak with him briefly. When the server disappeared, she plucked the crystal flute from Joel’s hand and brought it to her own lips, sipping the cool, bubbly liquid.
“I wasn’t finished with that,” he said testily.
“I know.” Her response was unapologetic.
His mouth opened, then closed again when the waiter returned with a tall pilsner glass filled with amber-colored liquid, a thick foam head skimming the frosty rim.
“Thanks, Jeffrey.” Riane took the glass and offered it to Joel. “I thought this might be more to your liking.”
For half a second she thought he might refuse the drink, but thirst must have triumphed over obstinacy as he reached for the glass. His fingers brushed against hers and she felt that zing again.
“What makes you think you know what I like?” Joel challenged.
She took another sip of his champagne before responding. “It’s something of a hobby of mine—studying people.”
“Have you been studying me?”
“I study everyone.”
“And what do you think you’ve learned?”
“You don’t like champagne,” she said, “and you won’t pretend to enjoy it, even though everyone else guzzles it like water at this kind of event.”
He tipped the glass of beer to his lips and drank, his eyes still on hers.
“I imagine you suffered through dinner,” she continued.
“The food and the conversation. You would probably have preferred a nice thick steak, rare, and a discussion about the Yankees’ chances at the pennant.”
She saw the corners of his mouth twitch, wondered if he might actually smile. He didn’t.
“Medium well,” was all he said.
“Sorry?”
“My steak,” he clarified. “Medium well. I like to be sure it’s dead.”
“And the Yankees?” she prompted.
Now he did smile, and it completely transformed him. With his dark and somber expression, he was dangerously handsome. With those sensual lips curved, he was devastating.
“Absolutely.”
She nodded, but couldn’t for the life of her even remember what the question had been. The man had just smiled, and her mind had blanked.
“Is that the end of your analysis?” he prompted.
“Not quite,” she said, wondering whether she should pursue the issue or make a tactical retreat. He intrigued her—maybe too much. She was a woman used to being in control of her life and her emotions. But after less than ten minutes in Joel Logan’s company, she felt her comfortable world tilting crazily on its axis. It thrilled her. And terrified her.
“What else do you think you know?”
“You’re looking for someone. Someone you expected to be here. Whether he is or not, I couldn’t say, because I don’t know who it is, but I know you haven’t found him. Or her,” she amended quickly.
He pinned her with that deep blue gaze, and she felt as if all the bones in her body had simply melted. When he spoke again, the low, throaty tone was as seductive as a caress. “Maybe I’m just looking for someone to take home for a quick bout of hot, sweaty sex.”
“I hadn’t completely disregarded that possibility,” she acknowledged, a little breathlessly. “But I think if that was what you wanted, you would have found her by now.”
“I’m flattered, I think.”
“Just an observation, Mr. Logan. So why don’t you tell me what it is that brought you to West Virginia?”
“Why do you assume I’m not a local?”
“If you were, we’d have met before now.” And she definitely would have remembered. Joel Logan wasn’t the type of man any woman would forget.
“I’m here on business,” he admitted after a pause.
“What kind of business?”
“You haven’t figured that out?”
“I’m still working on it,” she said. “But I haven’t been able to think of any reason why an out-of-town cop is at my fund-raiser.”
“I’m not a cop.” He took another sip of his beer.
“Oh.” She frowned. Then, in an accusatory tone, she said, “You look like a cop. Standing at the far end of the room, your back to the wall, as if you expect armed gunmen